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sunscreen. I had worn a hat with a wide brim. I had done everything I was supposed to do in order to not get a cold sore and, yet, there it was—a blister the size of a nickel and still growing. Maura did her best to camouflage it with makeup on the day of the shoot, but it was pretty damn ugly. Still, I wanted the job so much that I showed up and tried to pretend it wasn’t there. I ducked into wardrobe, donned my bridal gown, and kept my hand over my mouth until the cameras rolled. No one mentioned the Thing—not until the groom stepped closer in anticipation of our kiss and took a good look at me. Mel Gibson Junior lowered his head and was about t o pucker up when he recoiled in horror and announced, “There’s no way I’m kissing that. ” So much for the Tic Tacs commercial.
    “Maybe I should write Jack Rawlins one of my complaint letters,” said my mother, after I arrived home from yet another tough day and moaned that he was responsible for my career woes. She had used her key and let herself into my apartment and was busily alphabetizing the cookbooks in my kitchen. “Or maybe I should give you a nice haircut, dear. Those split ends aren’t very flattering.”
    “Maybe you should stay out of this, Mom,” I said, losing my patience with her. I knew she was only trying to help, but what I needed was for her to leave me alone. “Maybe you should find something constructive to do with your time.”
    She reacted as if I’d slapped her. “What did you say?”
    “I said that you need to involve yourself in an activity, a project, anything besides me.”
    “Oh, I see. So I suppose you’re not a worthy project? I should go and volunteer someplace, spend my days with strangers, while my only daughter is struggling?”
    “I’m not struggling,” I said, sinking onto the sofa. “I’m plateau - ing. I was on the rise and now I’ve leveled off. T h e business goes in cycles. I’ll be up again. I know I will.”
    I didn’t know anything of the kind. I just wanted my mother off my back.
    “Fine. I won’t cut your hair for you,” she said huffily. “And don’t bother thanking me for organizing your cookbooks. Cookbooks. Ha! God forbid you should fix a decent meal once in a while, Stacey. If you ask me, you got that cold sore because you don’t take care of yourself.”
    “I do take care of myself,” I said. “I’m a grown woman, as I keep reminding you.”
    “A grown woman? Then where’s the ring on your finger? Or am I supposed to keep quiet about that, too?”
    “Oh, please, Mom. Not the marriage routine again.”
    “Yes, the marriage routine again. Grown women not only have lovely houses instead of apartments that look like a girl’s dormitory”—she gave my living room the once-over—“they have husbands, Stacey, nice husbands with nice jobs and nice manners. Some grown women even have children. But then I should be so lucky to be a grandmother. Of all my friends in Cleveland, I’m the only one whose daughter isn’t—”
    I grabbed the two throw pillows from each end of the sofa and covered my ears with them, stopping her latest harangue in its tracks. Not very mature of me, I admit. Not very grown woman-ish. But it worked. It shut her up and was, therefore, the best course of action under the circumstances.

 
     
     
     
    f ive
     
     
    I went over to Maura’s the following Saturday, hoping she would cheer me up as she always did. From the first day we’d met, when I was playing the part of a nurse on Days, she’d been my rock, my champion, the person who told me the truth but never criticized, never judged. That’s what a best friend is, isn’t it? Someone who talks you off the ledge when times are tough; who celebrates your success when others are envious of it; who can joke with you as easily as share intimate confidences with you; who urges you to keep going, keep pushing, keep remembering that life is full of possibilities and that even a bad review from a pompous movie